Collision course
by RosesToPaint
Summary: Trevor and Philip could be friends. They're not, but that's not the important part. They could be - and maybe that's worth a try. And a little push in the right direction never hurt anybody.
1. Chapter 1

Ok, so this is my first try at this. I'm not usually good at romance, but I guess Trev and Philip sort of lend themselves to friendshippy-half-romantic feels and that's something I _am_ good at – so here you go:D

Chapters will be 2.500 words usually; the prologue is a bit shorter.

* * *

There's a long, neat rip in at the site of Trevor's shirt where it caught on a nail last night. It tore exactly along the seam of his sleeve, just above his elbow. Philip scrunches up his nose as he struggles with the needle. He's really not the best person for such fiddly work; sometimes his hands still shake – and even if they don't, he doesn't have Trevor's or even Marcy's patience for this sort of thing. But Marcy spent most of last night sewing up much more delicate things and is currently passed out on Philip's mattress. And Trev … well. Philip eyes the man's bruised hands with sympathy. Nothing's broken, but he has no doubt they hurt like hell – no surprised after that asshole shut the car door on them.

"You ok?" Trevor asks, watching him mildly from over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles, cracking his fingers as if it could get rid of the tremors. "Just … give me a minute."

It's not a big deal if he can't do it. Really, the question came rather off-hand – 'You think you can fix that for me?' If he can't, Trevor's mom will do it without batting an eye. She's been cleaning up after her son for almost 18 years, after all. _Cage fighting_ will have ripped more shirts than any half-suicidal time traveling missions ever could. But still. It's a battle Philip keeps fighting with himself, trying to wring out whatever abilities this body grudgingly gives him, withdrawal be damned. It helps that Trevor's so cool about it, leaning back against the couch and leaving him to it.

"Fuck."

The stitches come out a little uneven. They don't even have any proper yarn; he's working with Marcy's spare surgical yarn and the white stands out starkly against the black fabric.

"Take it easy," Trevor advises, stifling a yawn. "We're all tired. Want to get breakfast after this?"

"Breakfast?" he murmurs, distracted. "Don't you have school?" Trevor nods.

"Yeah. But it's no use going back home for two hours. I've got my things, so let's eat and I'll head out straight after." Far be it from him to convince Trevor to go home. His familial situation seems less tense right now, but he understands the reluctance to engage with the people who are supposed to be his parents. He's almost glad that **Philip** didn't seem to have talked much to his anymore. Trevor reaches forward to push his sneaker against Marcy's sleeping back. Once, twice – "What …?"

"Food?" he enquires but she waves him away grumpily. "That's a 'no', I guess."

"I'll bring them back some," Philip volunteers as he finally ties off the thread. His eyes wander over to where Carly is lying, side wrapped tightly and no longer bleeding through the bandage. "Let's go."

Going out with his team is always a bit of a challenge. Not only are most of them picky eaters, they also have to go far enough from the city center to avoid all of their friends and families.  
With only Philip and Trevor it's easier. It doesn't look weird when they walk somewhere together, simply because the age difference isn't that big. Adding to that Trevor's tall frame and Philips college-y grunginess they look like normal friends. Also, they live in entirely different areas of the city, so their friends – or acquaintances, in Philip's case – won't easily cross paths.

He yawns widely, bumping into his companion as his eyes squeeze shut. Trevor casually pulls him away from the bike lane, just as harried looking girl shoots past them.

Being alone isn't usually a problem. Philip is pretty good at keeping his own company. He has Poppy. And sometimes Ray turns up to check on him. But every once in a while it's just nice to have real company where he can let his guard down. The joint they settle on looks shabby, but the smell of pancakes that comes from inside is magnetic and there's this funny little green 'V' on their window that signifies edible food.

In the end Philip thinks they should have known. The door bell chimes and they're met not only with the scent of food, but also a gaggle of dolled up girls. Two of them only cast them passing looks, just long enough to take in Philip's nose ring and lose interest, but the third one starts visibly.

"Trevor? What the hell?"


	2. Chapter 2

I've started watching the show for the second time now, first time in English, and can I just say that Jared Abrahamson's voice does things to me?:D

Also, oh my gosh, Philip – I forgot he cried for Detective Gower:(

* * *

"Trevor what are you doing here?"

For a moment something like panic flies over Trevor's usually composed face before it settles back into something appeasing. He lifts his hands in a mollifying gesture as the girl's features darken. His girlfriend then, Philip thinks, too fascinated to be worried. It's neither the first nor the most damning time he's been caught with one of his teammates. And if Trevor's good at something then it's soothing someone's fears away.

"Rene," he acknowledges evenly "Good morning." Rene scowls at him, apparently unimpressed by his calm.

"Where were you yesterday?" she demands instead, eyes flickering over to Philip, who only waves lamely in greeting. "And who's that?"

"That - … uh, is Philip." Rene eyes him suspiciously. It's true that she knows all of Trevor's 'friends', all the delinquents and shady characters that dragged Trevor Holden's life down the drain. Philip, for all he looks like he might fit right in with them, is an unknown, and he can see the gears turning in her head – how do they know each other? How does _she_ not know him? Then suddenly a smile breaks out on her face, maybe even a mostly real one, and she holds her hand out for him to shake.

"Heeey," she chirps, "I'm Rene, Trevor's girlfriend. But I'm sure you knew that already!"

Philip takes her hand warily; it's soft and brings a wave of perfume along that makes his nose itch.

"Hi Rene," he says dutifully, shaking her small hand very carefully, almost afraid he might break it. "Sorry for keeping him," he also volunteers, half aware that his friend might be in need of an alibi. "I ran into some trouble yesterday and called him. That's why I'm springing for breakfast." That seems to appease her; she throws Trevor an appreciative look and waves her girl friends over.

"That's so sweet – you don't mind if we join you, right?" She widens her eyes at Philip beguilingly, then slips her hand through Trevor's arm before either of them can protest and drags him along. Poor guy, Philip thinks when his friend throws him a mildly alarmed look. This spiraled out of control pretty quickly; so much for a relaxed breakfast.

The girls watch him with a mix of confusion and bemusement. So he's not the guy who looks like he eats vegan pancakes, but Trevor is munching on a particularly girly looking fruit salad, so Philip feels their weird looks are a bit over the top. "So," Rene starts, stealing a star shaped piece of apple from Trevor's bowl. "How long have you known each other?" It feels a lot like meeting the parents, Philip thinks, stuffing a piece of pancake into his mouth just to give himself a bit more time to answer.

"Philip repaired my computer," Trevor says, as if it weren't just as likely the other way around. And just for good measure he adds, "He's really good." It sounds so earnest, Philip almost wants to believe it himself. "Turned out we get along really well and … here we are."

"That's great," Rene breathes, "And I've been wondering where you've been lately, Trevor! You've been with Philip all this time?" The idea seems to thrill her more than it should.

"Uh, yes, exactly." A murmur breaks out among the other two girls and the atmosphere seems to warm up by about a hundred degrees. After that it's not exactly awkward anymore, but he still has the feeling that he's missing some major point.

At about eight Trevor is cheerfully dragged out of the little restaurant, pushed and shoved by his girlfriend, leaving Philip in a bit of a daze. He ends up footing the bill for all five of them. It could have gone worse. Probably.

* * *

"You shouldn't have done that," Marcy criticizes, even while viciously tearing into her waffles and dribbling glaze onto Philip's mattress. "Aw crap … How long do you think before they realize you're not clean yet? If his parents find out, military school is the least of Trevor's problems."

"I know, I know," he grumbles, freeing Carly's avocado sandwiches from the bag and tossing their doctor a bunch of napkins. "But it happened, so we have to deal now. And she seemed pretty happy to meet me." His incredulous tone makes Marcy's lips quirk up.

"Well," she muses, "he's been gone a lot – over night, too. I wouldn't be surprised if she thought he was seeing another girl. Judging by what kind of person Trevor Holden was … I don't blame her."

"So she was relieved that I was just a crummy college student and not a hot exotic dancer."

"You could be one," Carly drawls, eyes only half open as she struggles to sit up. "If you wanted. I believe in you."

Philip snorts. "'Follow your dreams'?"

"Exactly." She takes the sandwich from him gratefully, not even complaining when he fusses over her pillows, trying to make sitting up a bit more comfortable.

"How do you feel?" Marcy's eyes snap towards them, clearly interested in the answer herself.

"Pretty good for being stabbed," Carly muses, barely restraining herself from poking at the bandage. "Though I'm pretty sure I'll have to think about a live-in babysitter at this point. How are your references, Philip?"

"Excellent," he replies staunchly. "I'm exactly the kind you want to give your kid to."

"You are," she says, looking him straight in the eye. "My social worker might not think so, but I do."

"Eat," he says, all of a sudden feeling a bit off balance. "I've also got grape juice, because you bled all over the place."

* * *

It's a pretty quiet two weeks after that.

Philip doesn't know if the Director takes things like recovery time into account when he gives out missions, but he's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Carly is back on her feet again, but she won't be kicking in doors anytime soon. Mac is twitchy because of it, expecting the other shoe to drop soon – because there's such a thing as a 'calm before the storm', and this feels a lot like it. Says Mac. Philip doesn't think it feels like much of anything.

He's under a lot of pressure right now, says Marcy. Of course he's going a little crazy, seeing threats where there are none. Philip can't blame him. He's a good team leader, constantly worried about them, and a little bit of paranoia is only natural. But while Philip definitely appreciates some quiet time, it also means that he's the only one in the hide-out most of the time and it's starting to grate on him. Going out, seeing people, helps. He may know none of them, but the sound of people, the chatter, makes him feel less alone. Sometimes he spends hours sitting somewhere, drinking cheap coffee and just staring into space. The birds and the blue sky – well, the novelty still hasn't worn off.

Even the pigeons, pest that they are, have something beautiful simply because they are alive. Who cares if he spends two hours throwing them bread crumbs? It gives him inner peace and so everyone else can fuck off. So when a hand suddenly comes down on his shoulder, Philip starts badly enough to spill his coffee all over his pants. He jumps.

"Shit!" it comes from behind him. "Shit, sorry I just wanted to say hello!" Rene pulls tissue after tissue out of her handbag, just throwing them at him haphazardly. Half of them land on the floor, the other half he uses to wipe himself down quickly.

"Rene," he finally forces out, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of a wet crotch and the burn of the coffee on his thighs. "Hello." She looks awkward for a moment, before the expression is replaced with her usual confident smile – the face of someone who's never been denied anything.

"I just thought I'd stop for a quick chat. … And to ask if you happen to know where Trevor is."

Yes, he doesn't say. Scouring junkyards for spare parts. Hammering something together that I neither have the time nor the capacity to explain to you. What he says instead is, "Uh, sure."

"It's so weird," she says, aiming another one of her charming smiles at him and wringing her hands around the left over tissues. "You guys spend so much time together, but I never see you around. I really thought he'd gone back to going out without me. What do you even do together?"

"Video games," he replies decisively. "Mostly video games. And food."

Her face goes through several subtle emotions – annoyance about the video games, resignation, because boys will be boys, and then finally triumph.

"Well, we also do food! In fact, we're all going this weekend. You should come too."

For a moment Philip can only stare at her. What exactly does she want from him? He's not the 'cool' type – even among his college class mates he's mostly the weirdo. High schoolers do like older people, he muses, so maybe it's that. But then he remembers the look she gave him the first time they met. 'Why don't _I_ know you?'

She's annoyed, he realizes with more than a little bewilderment. Annoyed, because her boyfriend may not be having an affair, but he's made a friend without her. Rene doesn't know him, doesn't know who he is, what he and Trevor do together – he's completely outside the little sphere of influence she wields at school. "Sure," he says, trying for a smile. "I'll be there."

She's trying to regain control of her relationship by making Philip 'their' friend, not just Trevor's. Philip can deal with that. Trevor won't suddenly stop disappearing or accidentally standing her up; he'll need the excuse. And really, he can sympathize with the girl. If there's something Philip knows all about, it's wanting control.

* * *

Admitting the whole thing to Trevor is not as big of a deal as he thought.

"So … your girlfriend invited me?" It comes out as a question, despite his best efforts. They're not usually awkward around each other, because nothing embarrasses Trevor and Philip feels pretty secure knowing that his friend has seen shit far worse than the clusterfuck that is his host.

"On Friday?" he only says, brows furrowed in concentration. He's putting together a tracker for Kat MacLaren's phone and the tiny tools are difficult to handle with bruised fingers. He shoves the entire thing away with a weary sigh. "Yes, she told me about that. Sorry Philip, I didn't know she'd get so attached."

"It's fine, it's fine. I thought if she already knows about us you might as well use me as the occasional alibi. It'll calm her down if she knows me." Trevor seems to ponder this.

"You're right. I'm still sorry. It'll be a hassle for you." Philip shrugs, dragging himself from the couch to take a look at the tracker. It's ridiculously tiny, but Kat is notoriously shrewd; if she ever finds it Mac will be in for a world of trouble. He takes the small screwdriver and contemplates the screws that come with it. "One of us should have been a woman," he muses. "Someone with tiny fingers. You should ask Marcy." Trevor contemplates his own big hands; they're rough and calloused – the hands of a kick boxer and a footballer, not of an engineer.

"I'm ok with this body," he muses, "but yes. I do wish I had smaller hands." He peers at Philips hands, which are smaller, but mostly because his fingers aren't as long.

"Sorry," Philip offers, feeling vaguely inadequate and not sure why. Trevor laughs at him.

* * *

Trevor's easy acceptance of their outing reassures him more than it should. Still, for the actual event Philip feels woefully unprepared. Was that what it felt like to be a young adult in the 21st century? Worrying about clothes and how to make people accept you? What an unwelcome luxury. In the end he decides that Trevor's friends will have to take him as he is – he isn't very impressive, but it's Rene's fault for inviting him in the first place.

They meet at a burger joint in a fancier part of town. When Philip walks in, the scene that unfolds in front of him seems like something right out of a movie: There's a group of youths taking up the far corner of the place. They've pushed several tables together, laughing and talking loudly enough to make the other patrons glare at them. An insecure looking waitress is trying to help them along, maybe hoping that quick service and a plate of food will quiet the racket. Right in the middle of the chaos Trevor and Renee preside over the group the king and queen. It's funny how only a few days ago they sat huddled together in the hide out, talking about hands and tracking chips, and now Trevor's smiling at a bunch of rioting young adults and looking right at home.

It's the gift of those who don't care at all, Philip muses. He knows for a fact that Trevor doesn't have a clue what to do with those people; maybe it's because he hasn't talked to anyone who isn't a Traveler for far too long, but to Philip it seems as if he's forgotten how to have anything but polite, adult conversations. It makes for funny situations sometimes. But the high school students seem to thrive on it.

"Philip!" This time it's not Rene who sees him. Trevor waves at him, voice carrying effortlessly through the room. For some reason he looks really glad to see Philip; it's almost enough to make up for how everyone simultaneously turns around to look at him.

"Hey," he offers as seven pair of teenage eyes fixate on him.

"You made it," Rene croons, as if she personally wrestled today's get together into his busy schedule. She motions to some of the girls to make space for Philip, but Trevor simply reaches out to pull him over onto the bench.

"Sorry, sorry," he grunts as he nearly falls onto a blonde guy on the way, dragged along by an insistent hand. Blondie glares profusely at him as he's forced to relinquish his place on Trevor's right. Philip slumps down onto the bench, shoulder jostling against his friend's side.

"Guys," Trevor announces, either not noticing or not minding how they're squished together, "That's Philip. My best friend."


	3. Chapter 3

You'll be happy to hear that the half formed idea has mutated into something more solid; we have an actual plot now:D

* * *

It's not a total disaster. Yes, blondie – Kyle – is glaring at him the whole time, but the entire thing seems to pass right over Trevor's head too, so he tries not to dwell on it. All in all everyone seems remarkably accepting of him.

They ask a few questions, and Philip gives the premeditate answers: He's a college student, he went to school in a different state, he and Trevor met because of computers – which isn't even a lie, strictly speaking – and they usually do game nights. The only hick-up in the entire story is how Kyle subsequently tries to invite himself to one of these gaming nights. He seems to abandon that idea pretty quickly though when Trevor only smiles at him good naturedly, pointedly saying neither yes or no. It's as cold of a brush-off as he might be capable of and Philip is duly impressed.

Honestly, he feels only moderately bad about the situation; so he's usurped Kyle's best friend position. It's not as if Kyle actual best friend were still alive. Of course the guy doesn't know that, so Philip tries his best to refrain from gloating. It's really not his fault that Trevor seems to be the one who won't stop engaging him. It's a bit surprising, even to Philip, how well they do get along. There's been a low level of anxiety nipping at his heels – what would they talk about if not work? How much do they actually have in common when you take away the most important part of them, their missions?

He shouldn't have worried. There's an endless supply of stories going around, and he discovers in amusement that his stupid quips can still make his apparent best friend snort in a particularly undignified way, even if they're not about tech that nobody else understands. What he does feel a bit guilty about is how Rene, too, seems to quickly abandon the notion of Kyle as Trevor's right hand man. Bitter defeat crosses the boy's face when she decisively turns away from him and it occurs to Philip that he's just witnessing the social descent of a high school giant. It's a novel experience.

"You could have just told me," he hears Rene murmur on Trevor's other side, half reproachful, half amused.

"About what?"

"Your new 'best friend' maybe?" Trevor only smiles a little goofily at her.

"Sorry about that."

* * *

"Guys, we have a mission."

Mac's voice rips through Philip's dream like a wrecking ball. He blinks, disoriented to finds himself on the floor, together with half of his blankets. He taps his com and suppresses a jaw cracking yawn.

"What is it, boss?"

"Rescue mission; we meet at headquarters." There's a crackle of static and the sound of Carly's low cursing before the line goes dead. Then Marcy's sleep-rough, defeated voice cuts through the silence. "The trains aren't running yet. Can someone come pick me up?"

An hour later, when most of the team is already assembled around the computers, Philip pointedly doesn't think about what it means when Marcy and Trevor come in together. The image of their doctor riding bitch on Trevor's creaky bike is a dangerous one if he wants to live.

Instead he calls up the file he's procured on their target and hopes that neither of them will try to make any eye-contact with him.

"The Goldsteins – Stacy Goldstein, twelve years old, and her parents Erica and Gregory Goldstein. The parents are divorced. Mrs. Goldstein tried to challenge the prenup, then they fought over custody – it turned ugly real quickly. In the end Gregory Goldstein got full custody because mama didn't deal well with stress." He mimes throwing back a whiskey glass and shrugs. "Two days ago Stacy didn't come home from school. We're not entirely sure what Erica Goldstein's plan is, but it'll end tomorrow night with their car in a lake and both of them dead."

Mac claps his hands and watches them expectantly.

"Please tell me we're saving the child," Carly says flatly. There's something like disgust on her face as her eyes flicker to the blown up photo of Erica Goldstein's face.

"We are saving the child," Mac confirms. "Unfortunately the entire thing happens about two hours out of town, so I can't exactly go in and play the FBI agent who happened to stumble upon the scene." At night. In a place where has no reason to be.

"Also, because that usually worked more with luck than anything else," Philip quips. "What we need is for it to look like a lucky coincidence – because apparently Erica Goldstein still has to die."

The thought settled like a stone in his stomach the first time around. He's … not exactly fine with it now, but he's bowing to Mac's word. Erica Goldstein brought it upon herself. Driving while intoxicated, with her own child in the car … they can't be sure that she intend try to kill them both, and he's clinging to that. Trevor bumps their shoulders together, as if sensing his declining mood.

"We'll think of something," he says. "I might already have an idea."

* * *

It's a simple plan, but the best ones always are.

Erica Goldstein's car is an old, decrepit Ford. If there were a BCM, it would have been easy for Philip to take control of the computer, tweak it as necessary and then wipe all traces of their presence from it. As it is, Trevor and he put a few small trinkets together.

"Records say that Stacy tried to free herself from the sinking car – there were blood and scratch marks all over the door." He puts the tiny devices into Carly's waiting hand, ignoring the way she scowls at the information. "But the door was locked. If you can slip one of these little suckers into the door jamb –" he points to the little cube – "we can remotely activate it to open the door. If we're lucky she'll jump out before the car hits the water."

"And if we aren't?"

"If we aren't then there are still these." 'These' are roughly the size and shape of a penny. "Mrs. Goldstein's car still has a manual roll-down window. Slip one left and right between window and door and it'll dissolve the adhesive – the window will open automatically. Trouble is," he confesses a little awkwardly, "that this was pretty short notice, and chemistry isn't exactly my area, so they're not as good as they could be. We'll have to recover them somehow, because they're not water soluble. Same goes for the door opener, obviously."

"That won't be a problem," Mac announces. "I received this." He puts a rough looking wooden box onto the table. When he opens it, there are two mouthpieces inside, no bigger than pacifiers.

"Oh," Trevor says, looking very interested. "Are those diving respirators?"

"Exactly that. One for you, one for Carly. We'll wait until the car has completely sunk, then you two go and remove the evidence. This will give you just enough time – three minutes to the bottom, three minutes up, and two to do whatever you need to down there."

"Great," Carly says, taking her respirator and slipping it into her pocket. "That's all we need."

* * *

"Marcy, are you ready?"

"Two minutes," the com crackles. "I need to set up."

"You've got one," Philip cautions. "They're almost here."

Despite the fact that Mrs. Goldstein's car is prepped all to hell, Philip feels anxious. He always does on missions, to some point – and let's be honest, since he completely got off heroin, anxiety has become a quiet, constant companion anyway – but he can't help but be especially emotionally compromised if a child is at stake. He hears the engine before the headlights come around the corner. There's the squealing of tire and then the sound of the car jostling as it races over the grass and towards the lake. It's a puny lake, Philip thinks. Not even wide enough to properly swim in it. But it's deep enough to submerge six cars if need be.

He was right of course. There's no sign of the car stopping; this is Erica Goldstein's suicide they're witnessing. The realization leaves him only breathless for a second. "Trevor … now."

There's no sound of the device going off; only the door opens violently, as if someone kicked it. He can barely see Stacy's terrified face as they shoot past and then … nothing happens.

"Shit," Mac voice sounds in his hear. "Shit, no, the seatbelt is stuck, she can't get out." A splash and a loud crack announce that Stacy's first time window has just closed. The impact on the water forced the door close again. Breathlessly they wait.

"Give her a minute," Mac's voice sounds warningly across the com; Philip would bet money that he's the only thing keeping Trevor and Carly from jumping in after the girl. "She only needs to open the seatbelt."

A minute has rarely ever felt so long. "She's not coming up," Trevor decides. "I'm going after her."

Across the lake two figures sprint through the dark, Trevor's tall frame in the lead, Carly shining the way with a heavy duty flashlight.

"All right," Mac says, "Philip, Marcy, get ready."

"Ready when you are," Marcy responds and out of the dark two more figures emerge, one tall and slim, the other shorter and carrying what Philip knows to be a first aid kit and defibrillator. Philip himself jogs up at a more sedate pace. He's not exactly needed here, but having her team around seems to put their doctor more at ease.

"Trevor and Carly won't be much use to me when they come up. Philip, I'll need you to assist me."

"Oh … – all right."

Mac spreads a mylar blanket across the grass while Marcy starts prepping the memory serum. Then they settle to watch the lake. Two minutes pass. Then three. Ice starts to settle in Philip's limbs, growing spiky crystals towards his chest. He catches Marcy's worried look across the blanket.

"Screw this," Mac rumbles and starts pulling off his suit jacket. He's to his knees in the water when a head emerges from the dark. A high pitched cough and sputter, and then Stacy Goldstein starts to cry. Mac pulls her into his arms and hurries towards Marcy, who wraps the girl into the blanket.

"It's ok, sweetheart. You're ok, you're ok …" She lets her cough up some more brackish water before pushing the syringe into Stacy's arm; the girl slumps forward in a dead faint. But Philip has only eyes for the respirator that is clutched in her hand.

"Shit," he breathes. "Whose is that?"

More sloshing comes from the lake and then Carly screams,"Marcy! Marcy, hurry up!" Her voice sounds rough and used up, broken by heavy pants for air. She's strong, but not strong enough to drag along someone of Trevor's size. Mac and Philip both run to the water, one grabbing their unconscious teammate under the arms, the other by his knees. Carly follows them slowly, weighted down by the water.

"Ok," Marcy grits out, abandoning Stacy on the blanket and rolling up her sleeves. "Everyone out of my way. Philip, get the defibrillator ready – I got this." Hands shaking, Philip reaches for the kit.

* * *

"You're a fucking asshole," he tells Trevor on the way back. The teenager is wrapped up in two more first aid blankets and Philip's pullover; his clothes are in the trunk, sopping wet and stinking of stale water. _Trevor_ stinks of stale water.

"Am I?" His voice sounds even more destroyed than Carly's. In the dark Philip can't even make out his face, but right now he's glad for it. He'll be looking at him with that serene expression right now and that means Philip would be forced to punch him in the face.

"I'd call you an idiot, but we both know it was the only way to save Stacy. But you're still an asshole. You nearly _died_." Trevor hums in agreement. For a moment they watch Marcy in the driver's seat, shoulders still tense. Carly has passed out in the passenger seat. "Sorry," he offers, shivering a little. He looks pathetic like this; hunched over and ill. For a moment Philip fights the irrational urge to offer his own body heat. His fingers curl into the blanket, knuckles bumping against cold skin where the defibrillator left fiery red marks. Then he leans forward.

"Hey Marce, can we turn up the heat?"

The night isn't over exactly. Mac is still sitting in a bush somewhere – and isn't that an image – watching over Stacy's prone form. It wouldn't do to save the girl and then have her eaten by a bear, kidnapped, or plain frozen to death before someone finds her. And so they're all technically on standby.

Philip hates it when someone gets injured, but he also can't help but feel a little glad whenever someone sleeps at the hideout with him. They've grown into their own sort of family; having them around … is nice. He doesn't even mind that Trevor gets his bed or that Carly and Marcy stole the spare mattress. When it's all five of them they even have to share the couch, so he counts his blessings.

Maybe, despite the confusion and the terror of tonight, he might actually get some sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

As you might have suspected, this is a slow burn, because I really can't imagine anything else for someone as defensive and generally hurt as Philip. But here's the start – I hope you won't be too disappointed:D

Also, Trevor is surprisingly hard to get right.

* * *

Words rarely ever make any impact on Trevor. He listens to Mac, he values the opinions of his team – but when he thinks he's doing the right thing, trying to change his mind is like yelling into a snowstorm. You're heard somehow, but nobody cares. The same goes, fortunately, for angry words. Usually he just takes them, aware that they are rarely against him personally. Philip himself remembers being snippy with him occasionally, especially when deep in withdrawal.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise when he notes that Trevor seems to feel guilty about the lake incident. Calling him an asshole was fueled by helplessness and fear more than anger. He doesn't exactly regret it though; it would be nice if the idiot were a bit more mindful of the people who would miss him if he died. He was, however, not prepared for the way his teammate expresses his regret, mainly because he's never witnessed it before.

"What did you say to him?" Carly huffs at Philip, eyes carefully tracking Trevor's movements across the room. He's holed up at the farthest table, tools and pens obsessively organized in a way that never works when he shares workspace with Philip, sketching strange looking things into his notebook.

"What? Why do you think I said anything?" he replies defensively. So maybe he does feel a bit bad. She rolls her eyes at him.

"Oh please. What is he doing _over there_? He's been weird ever since Stacy Goldstein, and you were the only one who could have said anything to him – if you remember, Marcy was driving and Mac wasn't even there."

"I just told him to be … a bit more careful with his live." It's a palliated version of the truth and he's sticking with it.

"Bullshit," she scoffs.

"I don't care what you said," Mac interjects from behind, making both of them jump when his face appears between them, "Just fix it. It's eerie."

It is eerie. Even if his team leader hadn't interfered, Philip would have done something about it sooner or later anyway – it's hard to act normal when your partner alternates between avoiding and making earnest cow eyes at you. "What?" he finally hisses, after catching Trevor look at him for the third time. There's a moment of hesitant silence, and then Trevor says, "I'm sorry." It sounds a lot more sincere than his first wooden apology and promptly catches Philip on the wrong foot. "You were right. I should be more careful."

"What brought that on?" He tries for casual but ends sounding rather gruff. Because what the hell Trevor, why don't you just come right out with it? The teenager cocks his head consideringly.

"I just remembered how it felt when I thought you were going to die."

Something inside Philip's chest curdles. They don't usually talk about that. It's a silent agreement between all of them; nobody brings up how Philip short circuited their nuclear containment unit and nearly killed them all because he's a junkie. But there's no judgment in Trevor's eyes, only regret, and so he gives a curt nod. His teammate keeps staring at him for a few seconds, as if not quite trusting the quick acceptance, but then he nods too, apparently appeased.

"All right, everyone back to normal?" Mac enquires quietly while Carly watches intently and Marcy has the good grace to act deaf and blind.

"We're good," Trevor confirms, gathering his notebook and sidling up to Philip. Their shoulders bump together; it feels weirdly foreign. "Here," he says, putting the mysterious sketch down in front of him. "Have a look at this, please."

* * *

"Philip."

For a moment he starts, head whipping around to find the source of the voice. Then Philip taps his com, a bit annoyed with himself.

"Trevor. What is it?" The ones initiating these sessions are usually Mac and him – the only people who actually get mission assignments. "You in trouble?"

"Yes. No. We are doing 'Pizza night' – Kyle insisted." Only Trevor would think 'Pizza night' equates to trouble.

"So?" he can't help but needle. "Most people think Pizza is a good thing. Certainly nothing worth misusing the com for."

"I'm in the bathroom," he confesses. "Renee has my phone. It was supposed to be 'Date night', not 'Pizza night'." Both of these terms seem to vaguely bewilder him. "If you could come over, that would be … appreciated." Philip snorts.

"So Kyle hijacked your date with Rene. I don't think the solution to that is to bring in _more_ people."

There's pronounced silence on the other side.

"She's going to call El-…Ellen. Eileen?" He trails off, sounding mildly disconcerted. "Elena. She's calling Elena, because it's already awkward. Help me out here, Philip." This is going to end in disaster. He just knows it.

* * *

When Philip knocks on the Holdens' door, it's Kyle who opens the door. His face turns sour the moment he recognizes who's standing in front of him, but Philip isn't deterred.

"Hey. I'm bringing these back." He holds up a bunch of CDs – empty, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Great," Kyle says, snatching them out of his hand. "Thanks. Sorry we sort of have plans –" He closes the door on him slowly, as if it would make the gesture somehow any less rude. What an asshole. For a moment Philip considers putting his foot in the door, but he really has no excuse for that. Fortunately this is the moment Trevor decides to show his face.

"Philip – heeey." You dork, Philip thinks. That was the most suspicious greeting ever. "Great timing! We just decided we'd get pizza. You should stay." Trevor grabs him by the sleeve and drags him inside, past a sputtering blond. Take that, asshole.

It's nice inside; very middle-class. To Philip's moderate disappointment he doesn't get to see Trevor's room. Instead they stumble into the small garden where someone put two six-packs of beer onto the table. Rene sits with her back to the door, phone in hand. When she looks up and sees him something resigned settles over her eyes. Philip's guess is that she tried to pawn Kyle off to her friend Elena and then proceed as planned with Date Night. But now that he's here … Well, tough luck there. Once everyone has settled around the nice wicker table the entire clusterfuck of their dynamic becomes clear. The prevailing mood is annoyance.

Philip's not even really sure whom he's running interference for – Trevor and Kyle, whose friendship is obviously on the rocks, Trevor and Rene, whose relationship is several shades of awkward, or Kyle and Rene, because the latter looks willing and able kill the former. That is, if they don't band together to kill Philip first.

Philip let himself get maneuvered into the chair across from Rene while Trevor now sits between them, clearly pleased to be bracketed by the people least likely to start an outright fight tonight. Nice to know that at least one person is happy tonight.

Awkward silence. Rene sighs and peels herself out of her chair. "Great. Good thing I hid a few bottles of Jack in your room."

Trevor stares after her, aghast. "You did?"

Things become even more uncomfortable when Elena arrives. She's a pretty girl, but it's clear that Rene's little machinations would have never worked anyway. Kyle is clearly interested – Elena, however, is more interested in the alcohol.

It isn't easy to fake drinking around three watchful pairs of eyes. Philip is sticking to beer. It's not a matter of taste – because honestly, he doesn't like that either – but it's far easier for Trevor to keep switching his bottle with his own, significantly emptier one. Once Elena decides that everyone's boring and that she'll deal out the alcohol now, it doesn't even matter anymore; everyone's so sloshed that Philip switches to coke, no problem, and nobody seems to notice or care that there's no whiskey in it. He's not exactly worried about a substitute addiction, but Marcy would still kill him.

It's not so bad though, because he's treated to a front row seat of Trevor being drunk off his ass. After spending three hours drinking Philip's beer for him and being completely ignored when he insists that he doesn't drink hard alcohol, even his 6 foot football player body seems to have reached its limit. At first glance Drunk Trevor behaves a whole lot like Sober Trevor, except … _more._ Philip isn't quite sure how else to describe it. He's never had the impression that Trevor holds back much of himself. But that now he can't seem to shut up, dribbling his personality all over the floor, that seems to have been an error in judgment.

"This is irresponsible," his teammate tells him, looking very stern. "I don't think I like this. My parents would be horrified. Gary will ground me until I'm forty." It's a bizarre twist on his usual self, and it's difficult to say what is his honest opinion and what is a woozy attempt to cling to his cover.

"Well, not if you don't tell him, Trev." Trevor's face turns vaguely disapproving.

"That's almost lying," he accuses. "I dislike lying to them immensely. I wish I could stop." For a moment he looks his age – not seventeen, but _very_ old. The odd moment is broken when Kyle cackles, "You're a teenager! It's what you _do_." Trevor gives him a hard look.

"No, it's really not." And so it goes on. To Philip's amusement, every once in a while Trevor seems to become self-aware, realize just how drunk he is and be surprised by it. Then something will inevitably distract him and he'll forget for another thirty minutes.

"You know what," Philip murmurs after the spiel's been repeated for a few times, "I think we'll be switching to coke now. And by 'we' I mean you." He tops off Trevor's glass with coke while nobody's looking. The teenager cocks his head towards Philip, aiming for casual but ending up with his chin of Philip's shoulder.

"You are a good friend," the teenager tells him with feeling. "No, really. I never tell you because it makes you uncomfortable. Though I don't understand why." He lopes his arm through Philip's. "You are a _good_ friend."

"And you will have such a head ache tomorrow."

He considers peeling Trevor's hand off his arm, but it seems more hassle than it's worth. It's nice even, to be close to somebody he trusts. A bit weird, but comforting. Especially because he's reasonably sure Trevor will have forgotten about it tomorrow, so there won't be any awkward 'let's talk about it's.

"I'm going to bed," Rene announces abruptly sometime after 2 a.m. "Everybody out; we're sleeping." It's exhausting, looking after a bunch of drunk teenagers. Philip only just manages to convince them that it's a bad idea to walk home – because they'd end in a ditch somewhere – and that no, they can't crash on the couch because the Holdens will be back tomorrow morning. He calls a taxi instead. "All right," he grumbles, giving Kyle one last shove out of the door and rounding on his friend. "Can you walk up the stairs?" Trevor gives a solemn nod, eying the steep staircase where his girlfriend has already disappeared.

"Yessir." Outside the taxi honks impatiently.

"Well then." He gestures upwards, waiting for some sort of sign that he's off the hook for tonight.

"Thanks for being here," he gets instead. They look at each other awkwardly. Or rather, Philip looks on awkwardly; Trevor is watching him very closely.

"Yeah, sure," Philip says. "Sure. We're … friends. That's what friends do – drinking your beer and fending off pretty girls for you." It's the complete opposite of what friends do, he thinks; that should possibly worry him. Trevor frowns at the mention of Rene.

"I don't want to go up there," he confesses quietly and Philip realizes he may be even drunker than he thought. "She'll want to _touch_ me." Philip sighs.

"You realize you're not actually old anymore, right? Protocol 5 indefinitely. Nobody will judge you." But apparently he's not getting the point, because his friend's frown deepens considerably.

"You're asexual," he ventures instead, because that's pretty much the next thing that would make sense. Such things are hard to determine, because it's not usually something that comes up in conversation. But Philip's pretty sure his mother was too – she never cared for a partner of any kind, she just wanted a child.

"Well," comes the considering answer, "when you reach a certain age, everyone is. Gets worse before it gets better, but one day you just stop thinking about it." It's probably even useful, Philip thinks. Training is hard and The Engineer especially has a reputation for running her Department with an iron fist. "I guess it's difficult to start again." He looks up the stairs dispassionately. Outside the taxi honks again, long and annoying.

"All right," Philip says, slinging an arm around Trevor's shoulder and pulling him down to eye-level. "Here's what you do. She's completely plastered, so chances are she'll pass out pretty quickly and won't remember much tomorrow." Trevor nods along, brows furrowed in concentration. "So go along with it for a while, be cuddly so she won't get any more dangerous ideas." Another nod. "Let her think she's getting her way." Another nod. "Just tell her nice things – you're good at that, right? Telling people nice things." Another, aborted, nod, followed by a look of mild surprise. "And draw it out until she zonks out. Tomorrow morning you just act as if you did it and you'll be good for another few days." Trevor stares into space for a few seconds.

"Your head must be an interesting place," he then says in lieu of a thanks, which Philip would definitely deserve for putting up with this shit. "It's full of ideas and facts and … nice stuff about us, our team. Makes me want to have a look inside."

"It's not a good place to be," Philip promises him, but doesn't deny the rest. "I'm leaving now before they drive off without me. Go, do your thing, lie your ass off. I know it goes against your nature, but watch out for your own needs just once. I'll see you on Sunday."

He leaves his friend standing in the hall, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft 'click'. He apologizes to the taxi driver, throws an annoyed look at Kyle and Elena drooling in the backseat, and closes his eyes. He wants to go home now, sleep. Not think about what Trevor's doing or not doing with his girlfriend tonight. Something heavy has settled into his gut. He wonders if it's sympathy. Pity. Or maybe just the coke.


	5. Chapter 5

Ok, not many chapters to go.

* * *

Morning comes a little earlier than expected – in fact, about four hours later. Philip's not really a morning person. He can and will jump out of bed at a moment's notice if required, fact is though he's rarely given a reason to. The most likely offenders are Mac, who likes to com him awake at odd hours, and Ray, who seems to think that if he can't have a lie in, nobody can. Though it's not entirely unusual for Marcy to come early for his weekly check-up or for Carly to vent her frustrations at someone who can handle it. For Trevor, however, it's a first.

It might be a bit unhealthy that Philip can recognize his teammates by their footsteps, but it's certainly useful when someone comes sneaking in at the ass crack of dawn and he doesn't want to get out of bed. The door opens almost silently, but Philip is a light sleeper. It should alarm him, if it weren't for the fact that few people could actually be this quiet while breaking in here. The long strides, the slight hesitation before taking a step, the suggestion of weight in the volume … It's clear to him who it is.

"Man," he growls, "I just put you to bed a few hours ago. What are you doing here?" Trevor flinches a little in surprise, then sighs and turns on the lights. He throws his helmet onto the couch a bit more forcefully than necessary. The 'Did you drive here drunk?' dies at the tip of Philip's tongue; Trevor looks completely, terrifyingly sober.

"I need a place to crash?" It sounds like a question, which is not good. Trevor's an assertive guy; questions usually mean bad news.

"She figured you out and kicked you out of your own house," Philip guesses haphazardly. The corners of Trevor's mouth twitch up a little. He scoffs.

"No. You were right, she crashed pretty quickly. No." He wanders along the room, propelled by strange, anxious energy. "My parents came home early. They had a fight, came home, and found their son and his girlfriend smelling of liquor. Gary's not the type to let that go – he found the bottles in the trash outside."

"Fuck, man." Trevor shrugs helplessly, scratches his head –

"Not sure what's worse; how they started yelling us awake or how they yelled at each other. So … I checked out for a while."

"And Rene?" Another scoff, this time accompanied by a defeated shake of his head.

"Went home. Not sure why, but now she's angry at me too."

"Hate to break it to you," Philip says, propping himself up on his elbows, "but I'm pretty sure she was already pissed at you yesterday – and I don't mean for the Kyle-business." That's obviously not news to his friend, who only nods absentmindedly before collapsing on the couch.

"I can stay, right?" As if he'd say no.

"Lumpy couch or lumpy mattress – it's all yours."

* * *

For the next few days Trevor becomes a fixture in Philip's garage. He's not entirely sure what the hell is going on with the Holden family, but his teammate seems to bear it with grim stoicism, so Philip figures it's only a matter of sitting it out. Not that he minds; it bewilders him a little just how much he doesn't mind it. Traveler 3326 never had so much as a square meter to himself – the future is a cramped place and solitude is a luxury reserved for those who need to work in silence. At first it was hard to get used to being alone, but by now Philip has made it into an art form.

Really, now that he tasted absolute silence, unbroken by the noise of human existence, he's not entirely sure he could ever go back there – back to sharing his breathing space with dozens of people at any given moment. But having Trevor around is like a puzzle piece slotting back into place; quiet, easy, familiar. Maybe it's because after not even three months in the 21th Philip feels he knows him more intimately than anyone he knew in the future. Maybe it's simply because Trevor himself is such a mild, unobtrusive person. Whatever the reason, Philip is in no hurry to throw him out and he seems in no hurry to leave.

"Look at this," Trevor says on Friday night, one week later. He drops down on the couch next to Philip, presenting a small, gray device in the palm of his hand. Philip squints at it.

"Is that the diving respirator?"

" **A** diving respirator," he replies, stifling a yawn. "Important distinction. Mac wanted to get rid of it because it's not as if we can get our hands on more of the proper oxygen tanks, but I told him I want to keep it. I picked it apart a few days ago, to see how it works – turns out it's not so complicated."

"And so you made one yourself," Philip scoffs. "Of course you did. Give it." He turns the device over in his hands, examining the empty sockets for the oxygen units. "Any idea how to get it to work?"

"A few," he admits, leaning against Philip to get a better view at the important parts. "It's not as if it needs to be complicated. I just need something sturdy enough to survive some excess pressure and then fill in the oxygen– I can make them myself if I have to." They sit like this for a while, Philip turning the respirator over and over in his hands, admiring the delicate work, Trevor a solid presence against his side. It feels almost domestic, he thinks dimly. But then his teammate's head sinks against him, angle awkward because of the height difference, and he feels himself forced to jostle Trevor.

"Hey. If you're tired, get the mattress out. You'll get a crick in your neck." The teenager only makes an agreeable noise. It's ridiculous; that guy is far too old to fall asleep on someone. "How long have you been tinkering with that thing?"

"A while," comes the mumbled reply. "Too long." Typical engineer, Philip thinks, surprised by the amount of fondness that wells up at the thought. Overworked himself and now he's crashing.

"If you want to sleep on the couch, be my guest. But I'm not going to sit here and be your pillow."

"You're a terrible friend," is the answer and Philip scoffs.

"That's not what you said last time." That at least manages to pry open one of Trevor's eyes.

"What? When did I say that …?" He sounds genuinely interested, which strikes Philip as pretty hilarious. So he really doesn't remember all of that night – why isn't he more surprised?

"Oh, I don't know – maybe last week, when they forced almost an entire bottle of whisky down your throat and I faced down Kyle and Rene for you. I remember being a pretty great friend then," he mocks. For a moment Trevor seems to stiffen against him, and then he starts to tremble. It's a slow spreading, continuous tremor that soon enough shakes the entire couch. The asshole is laughing, he realizes. Stifling the sound against Philip's shoulder, Trevor is _laughing_ at him.

"I'm sorry," the fucking worst friend ever chokes out. "I remember now. All in all not my finest moment, but you know what they say about children and drunk people." It takes a few more wheezing chuckles before he finally gets a hold of himself, lifting his head with a weary sigh. "Ok, you're right; I need to sleep. Good thing it's Saturday tomorrow."

Philip watches as he gathers his things and disappears into the bathroom, feeling just a little bereft.

* * *

Indeed, there are very little downsides to living with Trevor. Something that might come close is the way Carly watches them now: Slightly smug, as if she knows something that Philip doesn't.

Mac has cautioned them both, warned them that Trevor will have to go home at some point and not to make his parents more suspicious than they need to be. Marcy has remarked, rather slyly, that it's not like Trevor to hide from something. They like to needle. But that Philip can ignore – Mac's concerns are reasonable and easy enough to accept, and Marcy does have a point, one that has been niggling at the back of his mind for a while now anyway.

But Carly, who doesn't _say_ anything and only looks, is the worst. Short of 'What are you looking at?' there's really nothing he can say to her. "She just thinks it's interesting," Marcy assures him. "Because it is. You know, you're always so independent, both of you. It's kind of … reassuring that you have each other's backs."

"We all have each other's backs," Philip grumbles, a bit put out that they seem to consider his willingness to help so unusual. "We're all very supportive people." She rolls her eyes at him.

"You know what I mean," she insists. "Trevor likes to solve his problems by himself. He doesn't take well to people meddling in his business. He's never even said anything about his family or school or his girlfriend, even while the rest of us have been spilling feelings all over the floor." That's true, Philip muses. There's his addiction, Marcy's condition, Mac's trouble with his wife, Carly's ex-boyfriend … they've all just assumed that Trevor is the only one who has his shit together.

A memory resurfaces, recent and slightly bitter: _Trevor looking forlornly up the stairs – 'She'll want to touch me._ '

"And now…" Marcy makes a sweeping gesture towards him. "Now he comes to you when things go awry. Only to hide apparently, not to talk, but … it's a start. I'm glad." And maybe Philip is also a little glad, and a little flattered. "And you," she continues, giving him a soft look. "I think it's good for you that someone relies on you. There are people who just need someone, and there are those who need to be needed. Sorry Philip, but you're definitely the latter." Philip shrugs, unconcerned. It's true – he needs to be useful, to do something to prove his worth. It's always been that way. He's a doer.

Maybe that's why he coped so badly with heroin. It made him dependant – first on the substance itself, then on Marcy. He can't say that he didn't resent that all the way.

"You think I should talk to him," he surmised. Marcy gives him a long, hard look.

" _I think_ you know better than I how to deal with this. But I do know that he can't stay here indefinitely. Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle that they haven't called the police in yet."

"Probably only because he still goes to school," Philip confesses. He sighs. "Ok, I'll talk to him."

* * *

There's no elegant way to start this, so he jumps right in.

"Hey Trevor – what's going on with your parents?" It occurs to him that 'no elegant way' doesn't necessarily mean 'do whatever' about a second too late. But it's out now, and he's reasonably sure that his Trevor is already passingly familiar with his occasional tactlessness.

"That is a loaded question, my friend," comes the reply as Trevor turns around to him, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I'm unsure about the answer myself, but I would venture that the stress of having their son replaced by an alien is taking its toll on them."

There are so many things to be addressed about this, but what comes out of Philip's mouth is, "You're not an alien."

"In the strictest definition of the word, I believe I am. They don't know what to do with me. It has been … exhausting for all of us." They stare at each other for a moment, the weight of the confession settling like a blanket of snow around them; heavy and stifling.

"Come on," Philip coaxes. "Status report. What's the situation?" He presses his arm to Trevor's, not even thinking about it anymore. By now it's a familiar sensation, a bit comforting and he hopes it might give his teammate some stability too.

"Status report," Trevor muses. "Situation unclear, I'd say. A divorce isn't on the table; mom is too invested for that. I'm pretty sure they'll have calmed down by now, but they might start again when I come back. I might be avoiding Rene. I am avoiding Kyle."

"Plan?" Philip prompts. Trevor sighs, deep and defeated.

"I'm going home tomorrow," he acquiesces. "See for how long I'm going to be grounded for. Try to settle things with Rene." He sounds vaguely unhappy and so Philip says, "Well, if things go south again you can always come back."

Trevor grins at him, eyes warm and fond. Their shoulders are still pressed together; 'Now he comes to you,' Marcy's voice rings in his head and Philip can feel a smile tug at his lips too. It feels natural now to squeeze his teammate's shoulder, an almost-hug just casual enough to deny. It's a novel kind of intimacy between them, one he hasn't shared in a long while, but it's good. He could get used to this.

"Thank you for letting me stay."

It's so formal, as if they didn't spend an entire week wasting time and eating chips together. Trevor must have read the look on his face, because he reaches out to ruffle Philip's hair. It's such an old-man-gesture, Philip can't even bring himself to glare properly.

"Yeah, yeah," he drawls, "now let the youngin go back to his computer while you go work your elderly charm over there." The look he earns in return is purely amused.

"Ok, kid. Try not to miss me too much."

The garage seems empty without Trevor, but the memory lingers. Philip combs his fingers through his hair, feeling strangely settled. They'll see each other on the weekend, as they do every week. He thinks he'll survive until then.


End file.
